She’d pay money she couldn’t spare to hear Dylan sing. Real friends supported each other. They showed up at their gigs and cheered them on. What was the harm in spending a couple of hours doing something that she enjoyed? Hadn’t Dylan said something to that effect when he said goodbye?

Joy had nowhere to be that night, and now that she’d eaten and sucked down two Cherry Cokes she was buzzing. Sugar high. She’d be up late anyway.

She paid her bill, drove the block to the motel and checked in, then walked back to the bar, her step light. She fussed with her shirt, smoothing the creases, and checked her reflection in the window, patting her hair, then paid the ten-dollar cover charge.

Excitement coursed through her. Live music amped her up. She was also excited to see Dylan again, something she’d admit only to herself.

The Blue Room was deep and narrow with muted lighting, the hardwood floors worn and sticky. The rubber soles of her white Keds peeled up like tape being ripped off a surface. The small stage in the back was empty except for a single guitar on a stand, a stool, and a mic. A black cord ran from the guitar to the bar’s PA system. The audience—if she could call them an audience—was thin. Judging by their laid-back demeanor, Joy guessed most of the people here were locals. Work buddies hanging out at their favorite Thursday-night watering hole.

Joy’s gaze darted around the small space, looking for Dylan. Where was he? She thought he started at nine.

She approached the bar. “Excuse me, do you know what time Dylan is supposed to go on?” she asked the bartender, a wiry guy in a Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt with a hoop piercing his lower lip and ink wallpapering both arms.

“Five minutes ago. Lea, go see what’s holding up Westfield,” he told the cocktail waitress who’d inserted herself between Joy and a man who looked as old and haggard as the bar, nursing a light beer.

“Sure thing, Ed.” She left her tray of empty glasses on the bar top and went through a side door near the stage.

“Anything I can get you?” Ed cleared Lea’s tray, upending the dirty glasses in the sink.

Joy scanned the taps. “Sierra Nevada.”

“You got it.” Ed filled a glass and set it on a cardboard coaster with the Blue Room martini glass logo. “Keep a tab open?”

“No, thanks.” She didn’t want to drive tomorrow with a hangover.

“That’ll be seven-fifty.”